


Contagious

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s some function of Rogue's own personality, some part of his steadiness that gives him unshakeable faith in the other while sometimes Sting’s sparkle leads him to see shadows where there are none." Sting throws himself headfirst into things, and Rogue follows after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contagious

Sting is a creature of excess.

Rogue has known this for a while. It’s impossible to miss, when everything the blond does is underwritten with desire for more, the need to be stronger and smarter and faster and brighter, as if he didn’t already shine like the sun everywhere he goes. It’s breathtaking even to be his shadow; when Rogue alone would be content with average and everyday Sting catches him up in his wake, gives him the moon with an apology it’s not the sun, with a promise to give him everything he could want before Rogue has even thought to ask.

To have that kind of force in his life is overwhelming, would be terrifying to trust if Rogue weren’t so certain-sure that Sting isn’t going anywhere. He doesn’t know how he knows this; it’s some function of his own personality, some part of his steadiness that gives him unshakeable faith in the other while sometimes Sting’s sparkle leads him to see shadows where there are none. Rogue didn’t expect their relationship to turn romantic. He would have stayed friends forever, would have been certain that the warmth in his chest every time he sees Sting was love without ever thinking to act on it himself. It’s for the best that he has Sting, that one day the blond just leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Rogue doesn’t mind being led, doesn’t mind Sting pushing at the boundaries for more, always  _more_  because it’s nice to be the one doing the giving for once.

This time it starts as kissing. Sting’s humming against Rogue’s mouth, purring his satisfaction because he can’t manage to stay quiet, either, he’s always talking or whining or laughing even when his lips are hot on Rogue’s skin. Rogue had other plans for the evening, vague unformed thoughts of productivity and responsibilities, but Sting had shouted for him from the bedroom, and Rogue barely made it through the door before Sting was pushing him up against the frame, laughing low in his throat and working his fingers in under Rogue’s shirt nearly before he gets his mouth against the other’s. It takes Rogue’s breath away, shock and intensity at once as his heartbeat tries to skid into overdrive from perfect calm, but he doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t resist at all; he just parts his lips, offers his mouth for the warm slide of Sting’s tongue and his skin for the drag of Sting’s fingertips and goes passive while he lets the adrenaline hit his bloodstream.

It only takes a moment, a stutter of a heartbeat before Rogue is coming alive with electricity, but even that delay is too much, has Sting whining in desperate protest against his mouth. It’s not until Rogue reaches out, tentative fingertips to the bare skin of Sting’s stomach, that the whimper twists into pleasure, the shrill want fading into low resonance against Rogue’s lips. Sting’s pushing in closer, arching his back to slide his skin against Rogue’s fingertips until Rogue doesn’t have to do anything at all; he could just hold still and let Sting press himself against his touch. But that’s not as much fun as the alternative, so Rogue slides his hand sideways, curls his fingers into the smooth curve of Sting’s waist, and he’s rewarded immediately. Sting takes a gasping inhale of appreciation, so hard and sharp it breaks their mouths apart, and he’s grabbing at Rogue’s shoulder, closing his fingers on a fistful of fabric and dragging the other in bodily towards the bed.

“Come here,” he says. The words growl in his throat, turn the request to an order that Rogue is obeying before he comprehends the meaning. Sting pulls too hard at the end, drags their shared point of balance too far forward so Rogue falls atop him and they both drop to the bed. It takes Rogue’s breath away, the brief instinctive burst of terror at falling, but Sting laughs in delight, like the adrenaline is turning to life force in his veins, and he’s dragging Rogue closer, tugging at his clothes until Rogue shifts his weight and crawls onto the bed. Sting sits up, slides back as quickly as Rogue comes in, keeps moving until he’s nearly in the middle of the tangled sheets; then he’s wrapping his arms around Rogue’s waist, pushing the other’s shirt up so he can press his nose into Rogue’s chest, breathing so deeply Rogue can feel the warmth of the air across his skin.

“Rogue.” Sting is dragging his name long, slow and appreciative so Rogue’s not sure if it’s a salutation or just to taste the syllables on his tongue. There’s the press of lips to his skin, a kiss landing in the exact center of his chest, and Rogue shuts his eyes, is still shivering with that tiny burst of sensation when Sting keeps talking. “We should have sex.”

All of Rogue’s skin flashes tight and hot, panic and interest waging an even battle for control of his body. For a breath he’s staring unseeing at the wall over Sting’s head; then Sting shifts, sighs low-level pleasure into his skin, and Rogue remembers that he can do anything as long as Sting’s here, and takes another breath.

“I’d like that,” he says, cringing at how clumsy the words sound. “A lot.”

The tone catches high, suddenly breathless with no warning as his head starts to offer all the details of this proposition, but Rogue barely has time to start blushing before Sting is shoving at him, headbutting him until he topples sideways over the mattress. He lands flat on his back, loses his breath for a moment with the impact, and Sting takes advantage of this momentary weakness to pin him down, to swing his weight up and around until he’s straddling Rogue’s hips. The pressure isn’t totally unfamiliar -- Sting likes this angle, sometimes, when he’s jerking them both off -- but for the first time Rogue’s imagination jumps ahead, suggests what this would look like without the interruption of clothes, and all the blood under his skin ripples hot, floods to light his cheeks up at the same time it rushes down to send him instantly hard where he’s pressed in against Sting’s thigh.

“Me too,” Sting grins, and he’s shifting his weight, grinding against Rogue so there’s no possible question of whether he has noticed the other’s physical response. “Let’s.” He leans down, fits his body in atop Rogue’s so the other can feel the evidence of Sting’s own interest pressed into his stomach.

From the deliberation under Sting’s motions, Rogue is pretty sure of the answer to his question before he voices it. Still, he has to ask, if only to grant the heat suffusing his veins the support of certainty. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” Sting’s smiling, Rogue can hear it under his voice, and when his lips press in under the other’s ear Rogue can feel the sharp catch of his teeth. “Why not?”

Rogue’s breath catches. It’s only the heat of Sting’s skin over-warm against his that keeps him from going cold with panic, only the reassurance of the other’s presence than keeps him from flinching away. “I don’t know how to do this, Sting.”

“That’s okay.” Sting sounds certain, comfortable and confident and only very slightly patronizing; he sounds like he’s speaking with years of experience that Rogue knows for an absolute fact he does not have.

“We can’t just figure it out as we go,” Rogue protests. When he pushes up he shoves against Sting’s mouth, earns himself a whine of protest, but he gets upright anyway, gets his weight balanced in spite of the way Sting is shoving against him and winding his arms around his neck.

“Sure we can.” Sting nuzzles into Rogue’s neck, slides his fingers up through the other’s dark hair to graze over his scalp. “It’ll be easy, you can leave it to me.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Rogue observes, but any bite he might have mustered is gone into a shudder of pleasure at the fingers at his neck even before Sting huffs a protesting laugh and grinds down harder against Rogue’s hips.

“Come  _on_.” His lips brush Rogue’s ear, his teeth catch the very edge of sensitive skin. “It’ll be fun.” He’s nearly whispering, now, the volume of his voice turning every word intimate. “Don’t you  _want_  to?” and there’s no point in protesting, Rogue is fairly certain his resistance was gone the moment he came down the hall in response to Sting’s summons.

“Okay,” he says, feeling the full weight of the word, and has to tuck his forehead in against Sting’s shoulder while he flushes with a premonition of embarrassment. Sting doesn’t notice his blush; he’s caught up in laughing in the first rush of delighted victory as he ruffles Rogue’s hair up at the back of the other’s head. He’s nearly vibrating with excitement, trembling so badly and sitting so close Rogue can feel every flutter under his skin; then there’s lips pressing hot against Rogue’s forehead, pinning a few stray strands of hair to his skin, and Sting is sliding away, moving so quickly Rogue doesn’t even think to grab for him before he’s out of reach. He stares for a moment, his thoughts syrupy-slow with the heat in his blood, while Sting shrugs off his jacket and slides one of his gloves down off his arm; then everything kickstarts into motion, experience pushing Rogue to movement before rationality can offer input, and then it’s a race between them for who can get his clothes off faster.

Sting has a headstart, and less layers to begin with, but Rogue is more efficient, the same headlong rush that characterizes all of Sting’s movements working against him here. Rogue’s lying back on the bed to slides his pants off his hips nearly as quickly as Sting is kicking his own feet free, and then the blond still has to cross the room to scramble through a drawer while Rogue strips off the last of his clothing. He was nervous the first time he showed Sting this much skin, shy and flushed hot with self-consciousness, but Sting moves so quickly Rogue never has more than a few seconds for the air to chill against bare skin before the other is back, breathing heat back over his skin and growling appreciation while his hands trail lines of sensation up Rogue’s spine. This time is no different; Rogue is just pushing his clothes off the edge of the bed, just looking up to see what Sting is doing, when the weight of the blond hits him hard enough for Sting to tackle him back over the sheets. It’s Rogue who laughs, this time, the sound startled out of him without warning, and he keeps laughing, too excited and anxious at once to control the shudder in his throat.

Sting pulls back, rests his weight back over Rogue’s knees to grin down at him. He’s all gold like this, the light catching off all the radiant skin usually hidden by shirt and gloves, the only piece of his clothing left the sparkle of his earring against his neck. With nothing but that even the jewelry looks like part of him, the glint an extension of the light in his eyes and placed to catch Rogue’s eyes at the smooth line of his throat.

Rogue’s staring at the pale curve there, the way the shadow catches and pools in the dip between Sting’s collarbones, when the blond swallows. Rogue can see the action in the shift of Sting’s throat, is looking up with instinctive concern even before he sees the unusual strain in Sting’s face. Sting stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide like he’s reaching for something to balance against; then he blinks, the hint of panic clears, and he’s flashing sharp-white teeth in an impulsive grin.

“You ready?” He’s got a bottle pressed tight in one hand; while Rogue is still staring at his face, still trapped in shocked appreciation of the light in Sting’s smile, he’s pushing the lid open with a thumb, turning it around so he can spill clear liquid across his fingertips. Rogue’s vision tracks Sting’s focus, follows the blond’s line of sight to the slick across his skin and sticks there while Sting recaps the bottle and tosses it to join their forgotten clothes. Sting’s shifting his fingers, catching the slide of liquid down over his palm until his skin is coated; then his hand is at Rogue’s shoulder, he’s rocking up onto his knees, and Rogue just barely catches on in time to reach out and grab at Sting’s hips to hold him steady before the blond is angling his slippery fingers in behind him.

“ _Sting_ ,” Rogue blurts, panicked into a louder volume than he intends as Sting’s shoulder shifts. Sting loses his balance, tips in against the other’s support, and makes a sound so low and so far back in his throat that every inch of Rogue’s skin flares like he’s on fire. There’s no mistaking that sound for anything other than the moan it is, edging on pain but soaked in responsive heat, and Rogue can’t breathe, suddenly can’t think about anything at all but the tiny movement of Sting’s shoulder and the shuddering reaction he can feel running under the other’s skin.

“Oh my god,” he chokes. He wants to press his mouth into Sting’s shoulder, wants to look up to see whatever expression is on Sting’s face, wants to drag the blond down and pin him to the mattress. But he’s fixed in place with too many options, breathless with every involuntary shudder that runs under Sting’s skin, and he can’t  _see_  what the blond is doing but he can  _imagine_  and that is more than enough.

“Fuck,” Sting says, clear even though his voice is shaky. His fingers at Rogue’s shoulder dig in tighter, like he’s borrowing stability directly from the other’s skin. When he shifts his shoulder it’s a sharper motion, more sudden than the last, and before Rogue can voice any kind of a protest Sting is groaning response, arching back so far he nearly falls before Rogue can get a hand to his shoulder to hold him steady.

“Slow down,” is what he says, but he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, he can feel himself dragging slick against the inside of Sting’s thigh, and even his voice is undermining his words with shuddering response. “Don’t hurt yourself, Sting.”

“I’m not,” and Sting’s voice is quavering high, fluttering in his throat, and he still hasn’t straightened his back. Rogue is fairly sure it’s just his hold that’s keeping the blond upright, the trembling strength of his hold keeping their precarious balance. Sting’s shoulder shifts, there’s a slick sound of liquid against skin, and it’s not a moan he makes this time but a whimper, high and breathless as he moves. “It’s... _fuck_ , Rogue, just let me --”

He cuts himself off, and then he’s finally balancing himself, leaning in instead of away so he bumps his shoulder against Rogue’s mouth. Rogue takes a desperate inhale, his thoughts swimming hazy with heat, and then Sting’s slick fingers touch him and all his new-won air leaves his lungs at once. It’s for the best that Sting’s leaning in again; Rogue’s hands jerk on the blond’s skin, go from supporting to clinging, and when Sting slides his fingers down in a loose grip Rogue’s throat shudders on his exhale, turns it into a moan against Sting’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Sting says, sounding desperate and anxious. His hand drags over Rogue again, flooding Rogue’s veins with shivery sensation and leaving slick liquid in its wake. “Okay?” The upswing at the end is tacked on, barely making it a question, but Rogue is nodding anyway, is rocking up against Sting’s touch and panting superheated air that’s not quite enough to clear off the fog of want in his mind.

“Okay,” he echoes, his hands sliding unthinking across Sting’s arm, tracing over the white glow of the guild mark printed on the blond’s skin. He’s breathing too fast, he can’t level off his inhales, but Sting’s gasping on every breath of his own, Rogue can feel the adrenaline shaking in the blond’s body as if it’s replacing his blood. They’re both drawn tight and anxious for a moment, Sting’s fingers steadying against Rogue’s length with the focus of intention. Then he takes a deep breath, determination audible in the tension in his throat, and Rogue is opening his mouth to offer a warning, to suggest Sting go  _slowly_  when the blond lets himself drop down all at once and everything evaporates from Rogue’s head.

“ _Sting_ ,” he chokes but Sting isn’t listening, he’s gasping for air into Rogue’s hair and Rogue can feel him shaking, can feel the shudder of sensation all through the blond’s body. For a moment Sting’s panting into Rogue’s hair, every exhale whining desperately in his throat and Rogue is too overheated and panicked to move. Sting’s inhales sound  _pained_ , sound terrifyingly close to hurt, and Rogue shoves away the sensation drowning out his reason, drags his attention away from the slick heat of Sting around him so he can manage, “You’re  _hurting_  yourself.”

“No,” Sting insists, but he hasn’t lifted his head from Rogue’s shoulder and his voice is still raw and strained. “No, I’m fine.”

“You don’t  _sound_  fine.” Rogue is shaking, his hands are dragging across Sting’s back in an anxious attempt to offer comfort. “We should stop, Sting.”

Sting shakes his head. He’s close enough that the motion ruffles into Rogue’s hair, his mouth brushes Rogue’s cheekbone. “No.” He sounds steadier, now, his breathing is levelling off; he takes an inhale, laughs weakly against Rogue’s shoulder. “Unless  _you_ want to stop.”

Rogue opens his mouth, ready to insist that he does, that he can’t possibly enjoy something that is hurting Sting, and the blond gasps air and does  _something_  with his hips, shifts his weight and rocks sideways and back at once, and Rogue’s words melt into a moan on his tongue. Sting’s whimper is lower, purring down in his chest, and then he moves again and the sound drops lower into heat and vibration and pleasure. Rogue is the one who grabs at the blond’s hips in a desperate attempt to hold him still, to keep him unmoving while the burn under Rogue’s skin fades into manageability, but Sting doesn’t stop. He’s moving faster, finding a rhythm to the rocking motion of his hips, and he’s barely moving at all and it’s still too much, Rogue’s vision is sparking out of focus and into white.

“More,” Sting pants. He shifts his knee, braces his leg against Rogue’s and his hand at Rogue’s shoulder, and that’s all the warning Rogue gets before the blond is lifting his weight an inch, dropping himself back down with the same impatience of his first motion. The friction of motion turns to heat under Rogue’s skin, collects low in his stomach and along the line of his spine to curve him in closer to Sting’s shoulder. Sting’s pushing right back, digging his fingers into Rogue’s skin and breathing hard against Rogue’s hair, and Rogue wishes he could see the blond’s face but he can’t get his vision to clear and can’t lift his head. It’s probably for the best anyway; the sounds Sting is making are more than enough, the shaking heat in the catch of his inhale and the half-voiced groan he offers every time he raises his hips to slide back down over Rogue’s length.

It’s not until he’s found a rhythm to his movements that Rogue thinks to move his hand, to let Sting’s hip go in favor of closing his fingers around the other’s length. Sting’s slick against his fingers, hard and so hot for a moment it feels like he’s burning Rogue’s hand, and when Rogue tightens his fingers and strokes up over him the blond  _wails_  into his shoulder, gratitude and response tangling on his tongue until he sounds nearly as pained as pleased. It’s then that Rogue gives up on vision entirely, shuts his eyes and lets the sound of Sting’s breathing guide his own, lets the heat radiant on the blond’s skin pour into his lungs with every inhale like he’s trying to light himself up from the inside. Rationally he knows he can’t be glowing, that his skin is as dim and human as it always is, but he can feel electricity sparkling in his veins and grounding out against Sting at every point of contact, and even when Rogue is going lightheaded and dizzy Sting is still begging, still whining “More, Rogue,  _more_ ” against his forehead and suiting his motions to match. With Sting moving on his lap and panting against his ear Rogue can’t postpone the inevitable, can’t even offer token delay of the rippling pleasure swamping his blood. The best he can manage is to stroke faster, to tighten his grip on Sting’s length and twist his wrist to grant as much friction as he has to offer, and even then he can feel himself sliding over the edge while Sting is still whimpering wordless pleas into the heat of their shared air.

“Sting.” Rogue doesn’t recognize his voice, wouldn’t know it as his own without the shiver of air in his lungs. “Sting, I’m --”

Sting cuts him off with a whimper, a half-voiced protest before his fingers drop from Rogue’s shoulder to join the curl of the other’s grip. His hand presses in tight, painful even from Rogue’s perspective, but Sting is gasping in appreciation and moving faster, desperation stealing his rhythm, and Rogue loses the last thread of restraint he had left. He lets Sting guide the motion of his hand, lets the reflexive shudder of pleasure tighten his grip, and he just starts to hear Sting groan when the darkness of his shut eyes lights up into white and all his perceptions fade out into a moment of resonant peace. Sting is trembling against his shoulder, the lead of his hand stalling into a last few jerky motions, and Rogue opens his eyes and lifts his head just in time to see Sting’s mouth fall open, his breathing catch silent in the moment before he whimpers “ _Rogue_ ” and comes warm and sticky over their entangled fingers.

Sting topples sideways to the bed before Rogue’s caught his breath, drags the other down with him by the simple expedient of hooking his arm around Rogue’s shoulders and pulling him along. They land too hard, neither of them willing to let the other go to cushion their fall, but Sting is laughing breathless delight and Rogue can’t help but smile with him.

Sting is good at excess in joy as in everything else, and the longer Rogue is around him the more contagious it seems to be.


End file.
